Let it bleed
by sundaeflower
Summary: Something has changed that night when he'd plunged his fangs into the skin of his first Slayer. And he would be a fool to deny that.


**AN: **What can I say. Drusilla is my muse.

#

**Let it bleed**

.

_1898_

_London, a hotel room_

And there she's gone again in the blink of an eye. Into a world he will never be able to follow. Once, she had told him what had happened to her, showed him bits and glimpses of her past, but never to full extend.

It was enough.

And he hates Angelus even more for it.

He needs her to open up, but it's clear that he can't force the truth out of her. She can't be fixed, the damage is permanent; she's trapped in her own mind.

It's always future or past with her, barely touching the present moment.

„No! No. He left me. No pain, no hurt! I don't wanna be this. Can't breathe-"

She starts to break, heavy sobs shaking her frail body. About to crumble down to a quivering heap on the floor, she tries to stop her fall by catching onto the thin curtain by the balcony door, leaving rifts with her sharp nails. Thick tears are pouring down her hollow cheeks, glistening in the pale light of the moon which is filtering through the curtain she so desperately clings to.

He feels utterly helpless, heart breaking multiple times inside his quiet chest without even needing a beat.

He catches her halfway through her tumble around the waist and lifts her back up, pressing her against his own body to steady her. Her knees buckle and she tries to wiggle herself out of his firm embrace.

She can be quite heavy when she likes to. And right now she's not doing anything to make this easier for him.

A sudden and immoral urge to claim her drives him closer into her body, crotch pressed into her small bum. He wants her to cling to him, depend on him and he _will_ erase all the twisted little memories Angelus crammed into her scarred head, trickling down her spine and leaving her in a _fucked up_ daze.

„Don't _fucking_ mention that bastard again. The Big Bad's gone. I'm your daddy now. I'm in charge. Taking care of you, yeah? Like a good daddy should. Give ya pain and give ya love, how 'bout that?", he whispers in a low voice seductively into her ear and presses a soft, posessive kiss to her temple.

Freezing cold is seeping from her body. It's brushing his skin and soothes his burning blood, still hot from killing. Otherwise he would be unable to feel the difference of temperature at all.

He had never talked to her like that, _never_, in all the eighteen years they'd shared together. Excited upon her pending reaction, he shifts his body again and slowly walks backwards with her to the four-poster bed of the hotel room. Her soft body is melting into him, following his every move like a hypnotic dance, and it's getting him painfully hard. Biting back the sudden need, he let's himself plummet to the matress when his knees hit the edge of the bed. She makes herself comfortable on his lap, snivelling quietly.

When she finally looks at him after a long time of silence, the look in her eyes is dead serious.

„Li-a_r"_, she clicks her tongue against her teeth and snarls at him. „Naughty boy. Who are you to take his place? It's raining acid and foolish Spike likes to get burnt. My poor baby, doesn't know love."

She puts the back of her hand in a theatrical gesture to her forehead, sighs with the right amount of despair in her voice, before her mouth erupts into a gleeful grin. Almost posessive, she winds her arms around his neck and gives the fistful of hair she gathers in her hands a painful tug, forcing his head back. He wimpers oh-so softly, otherwise remains utterly still.

Holding her gaze. Letting her take charge. Whatever she needs.

„The moon always reminds me of the sun. See, they are brother and sister. Dark and light. Chasing each other. They never meet. There are shadows on the sun."

She leans into him, hovers with her sweet lips over his mouth and watches it, mesmerized.

Humming a soft tune he hadn't heard before, she slowly rocks her head from side to side to its rhythm; the vibration of her voice going straight to his groin.

Then, she tenderly places a soft endearing kiss on his lips. Pure and chaste.

„My white knight. Always ready to save my virginity. _Silly_ boy. Don't you know that fairytales ain't real?"

It was as close to a confession of love he would ever get from her.

.

_1900_

_China, Boxer Rebellion_

Something has changed that night when he'd plunged his fangs into the skin of his first Slayer.

In truth, Drusilla saw_ him_ as a champion now. Licked his fingers, cleaned his hands with careful strokes of her tongue and dark pride gleaming in her eyes until he'd fucked her against the pillar whilst he allowed her to rip through his flesh to taste power.

Now he was the alpha, the _dominant_ one in her unlife. And he couldn't seem to get the smug grin from his lips. Especially when he saw Angelus, looking at him with something akin to wariness in his gaze.

_That's right, you wanker, you should be afraid. _

He doesn't think twice about Angelus' weird behavior, because all that counts is that he will have his dark princess finally for himself, without the hold of her sire looming over them. Maybe it's just an illusion, but he's high on blood and the world never seemed more satisfying.

Never has he felt so fully in control as in this moment.

He's carrying Drusilla bridal style in his arms. She nestles her head into the crook of his neck and nibbles on his pulse point where the blood of the Slayer is still pumping rapidly through his dead veins and where she left her mark on him earlier.

Her silvery laughter is ringing in his ears as the city around them descends into chaos.

Buildings are burning, flames are licking at every house, blowing it to ashes. Despair's hanging in the air, filling his nostrils. The world is on fire everywhere he looks and the terror of the scared and screaming people around them almost makes his heart skip a beat.

„Look at the children. Glowing like pretty little candles waiting to be squashed out. Oh, it's so beautiful! Can I have one?" He can hear the excitement and the hunger in her voice.

And he's feeling generous tonight.

„Take them all, baby. Have fun." Gracefully he lowers her down onto the ground where she shakily comes to stand on her own two feet, clad in elegant black slippers.

The bones in her face whisper a creaking tale of death and carnage, forming into a mocking parody of life, eyes flashing yellow.

And then she takes over the blazing night.

.

When she finds him in a back alley – leaning casually at the brick wall smoking a fag – her lips are smeared with blood so radiant that he immediately recognizes it as a childs'. Only the innocent have bright blood, glowing in the dark.

And he would be a fool to deny that.

He doesn't particularly have a taste for little children, but well, everyone has their kink. Drusilla likes her food weak and submissive, he likes a little fight in 'em. Makes the devouring part all the better when the victim's begging for his life or, sometimes, begging for death. Like the Slayer, perhaps.

He loves death in all it's beautiful glory - pale and dark and cold.

Drusilla's sashaying like a princess to his side, blinking innocently through her long lashes. He snorts. She doesn't like to hear it, but most of the time she's like a big child herself. He can see the innocence she lost when her soul went on vacation, but the demon in every vampire loves to imitate life and play with the wicked.

„Back from the hunt, my love? You look ravishing." His eyes twinkle with mirky appreciation while she daintily lifts her skirts to curtsy before him like a simple maid would to her prince.

„Did you hear them screaming, Spike? And the sound after that? The silence is my favourite", she raves.

„Yes, I did. Death is yours. You're the queen of hell, my dear."

„And you are my king."

„Yes I am."

He flicks the fag from his fingers, pushes himself from the wall and circles in on her, like the predator he is. Breathing in the faint fragrance of death clinging to her delicate form, he cups her face between his hands and claims her mouth with the crushing force of teeth meeting flesh, the blood sticking to their skin mingling in their throats.

„You're mine now. Remember that", he whispers against her mouth.

Illusions are easy to shatter, but with time you are lulled into a sense of security.

And security is just another word for self-deceit.

He loves to shatter.

Heart to bone.

Until she tastes ashes.


End file.
